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What will you think of me?’
    ‘I prefer your dirt to Vanqua’s hygiene.’
    ‘Remember Lenin’s comment about sex? I consider him Vanqua’s soulmate. The allusion escapes you?’
    ‘You mean about not drinking from a dirty glass?’
    ‘Bravo.’ She scratched her rump. ‘Without dirt, no immune response. As for this glass,’ she did a dainty shuffle with her hippo body and assumed a little girl’s voice, ‘I can wipe it with my filthy hanky if you like and smear the yuk further round the rim?’
    ‘Too kind. It’s fine.’
    She sat again and raised her drink. ‘To all sobriety-deprived persons.’
    He drank with her and felt the relief it gave his body. ‘Hits the spot.’ On the wall behind her, he noticed an infrasound panel. Any unauthorised snooper here would activate a low-frequency pulse that liquefied his bowels into a quivering diarrhoeic mess. When EXIT security went critical it took more than body bags. It took mops.
    She was gazing at him fondly. ‘You’re a very fine fellow, sir.’ She’d become the Fairy Queen in Iolanthe .
    He remembered the reply. ‘I am generally admired.’
    ‘And you are , you rotten chick-magnet. I should retro-fit you with a bimbo barrier.’
    He fought his tiredness, yawned. ‘I still want to know how Vanqua justified this tub?’
    ‘It’s what he calls a branch office, may it wither on the vine. Oh, his reasoning’s plausible enough.’ She sat bolt upright, parodied Vanqua’s clipped accent and expression. ‘”Who can find it in a ship that big far out to sea? And a carrier is a fort.”’ She was a hilarious mimic. ‘”It’s guarded by a battle group and layered air defences — a shifting location no civilian or insurgent can approach.”’
    ‘So what?’
    ‘My argument precisely. Unheeded. The bugger doesn’t like me.’ She trilled, ‘And I can’t — tell — why.’ She reverted to speech. ‘Where are my rotten fags?’
    He still didn’t understand. ‘How could they sanction something that contravenes our charter? We’ve managed perfectly well for decades with bases in non-participating countries.’
    ‘A comedy for those who think.’
    ‘You’re making smoke.’
    ‘Wish I was.’ She brushed papers off her desk, looking for cigarettes.
    He stared at her keenly. ‘They’ve got to you, haven’t they?’
    ‘A bit, silly sausage that I am. Please, dear, don’t . . . resuscitate my drowning sorrows.’ She gulped scotch. ‘Remember when we were cadets? That law of Manu? How did it go?’
    He dredged his fuzzy mind for the passage. ‘A kingdom peopled mostly by Sudras . . . filled with . . . godless men and deprived of twice-born inhabitants . . .’
    She joined in: ‘. . . will soon wholly perish, stricken by hunger and disease. I’m glad you haven’t forgotten.’ She drained her glass. ‘And a place devoid of balance and humour loses perspective. When people get over serious, stock up on tinned food, candles and pray. Take a man with a severed jocular vein, mix him with despots, senators, pooh-bahs, simmer for some months, and . . .’
    ‘Why didn’t you cream the bugger?’
    ‘Can one, by impatience, force tight buds to open?’ A wicked glance.
    ‘Do I detect a fiendish plan?’
    ‘I’m a serviceable fiend. But quick moves won’t work. Despite my grande aptitude à la patience it’s been like watching paint dry.’
    ‘As long as you haven’t conceded.’
    ‘Thought you knew me.’
    ‘I do. So you’re pretending to roll over. And then you’ll attack from the flank.’
    ‘Perceptive. Now let’s talk about you. This is currently a conference venue and you’re press-ganged as a keynote speaker. Fifty cadets are dying to meet you. I want you to lecture them, Ray.’
    ‘My God.’ He was almost out of it. ‘Want a fill-in on the Chartres debacle?’
    ‘You’re tired now. Can do that later. I just need you to know that . . .’ She lit her fag, locked eyes with him, her playful side